The Grant County Herald

MRS. GEORGE.

Cricket on the Hearth.

I repeat again, and to my cost, if Mrs. George is an admirable housekeeper and a very superior woman. Her eyes are sparkling and penetrating, her hair ripples and waves like that of a child. I am—ahem!—almost charmed with Mrs. George. Not only are the eyes of Mrs. George extremely penetrating but her conception of character is something marvelous. I confess I was astonished when she laid before me the painful delinquencies of my two old servants. Starkey and Tom had lived with me 10 years, but upon the advent of this admirable woman I suddenly learned I was being plucked, that half my wages were taken off to poor relatives, that the cat was not answerable for my butcher's inflated bills and my dog has lived very comfortably on table leavings since then.

It was very plain that Mrs. George is an immensely superior woman. I liked her frank way of speaking about the furniture.

"A gentleman in your condition and of your appearance,"—yes she was pleased to say of your appearance—"should not be shabbily furnished sir. Not that I care for myself. Plain three ply and walnut, or even chestnut; but for the—e delightful rooms! Tur sev sir, with brilliant colors, and a set sir, in satin and gilt."

Well, of course, I had the parlors thoroughly refurnished, and I laid a neat new Brussels in Mrs. George's own room. To see that lovely woman's gratitude! it is beautiful.

Thus was I soliloquizing early one morning over my eggs and toast when Mrs. George came gliding in with the airy grace of a sylph. I never saw a sylph in my life, but I am sure that is the proper thing to say.

"Good morning, Mrs. George," said I warmly, and a diamond solitaire glittered before my mental vision, or perhaps I should say sentimental vision. And how was a man to hold out long against the charms of so nobly planned a woman, with taper fingers and gentle downcast eyes and such blessed notions of the beauty of domestic life.

"I trust your breakfast pleased you, sir."

"Upon my word, Mrs. George, I said, her bewildering eyes smiling into mine, "I never was so charmed in my life."

She blushed. What had I said to bring that exquisite dye upon her cheek? I grew frightened and backed away from the table pulling on my gloves.

"How soon do you go sir?" she asked rising, her slender fingers playing with a little chain that relieved the dead black of her dress.

"I leave in 20 minutes, Mrs. George."

"And so you are to be gone all day—am I correct, Mr. Hayes?"

I nodded.

"As you are to be gone all day, and I invariably see to such things myself, would you leave the key of the safe with me? The silver has long been in the need of scouring, and you really should not be so extravagant as to send it to a silversmith's for that purpose, as most gentlemen do. I have a wonderful powder—my dear old mother gave me the recipe: for indeed sir"—a plaintive tenderness glided into her pathetic tones—"we have had silver in our family: my mother was a Hancock."

She paused. My glance, I trust, was full of sympathy.

"Yes, sir; a Hancock. But reverse, sir, sad reverse, swept everything away"—with a stately wave of her white hand. "The powder is invaluable. I might, could I condescend, make my fortune with it. Do you think you had better have the key, or," drawing her figure up, "will you take the silver—"

"Mrs. George, I beg—. Here are the keys, Mrs. George."

There was $10,000 in that safe, and I detached the key of the money-drawer.

"Thank you; you will hardly know your plate to-morrow," she said with pretty laughing lips.

"Pray, pray wrap up well; it is such a wind!"

Thump went my heart.

"You will be home—when? I always prefer to have an explicit understanding, so that everything may be in readiness."

"To-morrow at 12 o'clock, Mrs. George," was my reply, wondering how it would seem to kiss a pair of lips just as dewy and pouting as hers; and then I tore myself from the temptation, shook hands with Mrs. George, and left the house.

"Straws show which way the wind blows," says the old adage. It is my opinion that hats usually do that little favor for mankind. At least mine took the liberty to do so that morning.

Death could not grip harder than I held on that erratic brim. It was, I felt, a bit gifted with extraordinary powers of locomotion, and I did not mean to let it have its own sweet will again. I pulled out my watch with one hand, holding still to my hat with the other. It wanted one minute to 7 o'clock and the other depot was five blocks off. Hoping against hope I set off on a run, and at the corner of the third block had the supreme satisfaction of hearing the final whistle and the swift thud and thunder of the departing train.

I was balked, and my hat gave a savage pull as I stopped to consider what had best be done. I anathematized hats of every persuasion, from the orthodox stove-pipe to the Quaker broad brim. To have crushed the offending member on my head as flat as a pancake, and then finished it with my penknife, would have been balm to my aggravated soul.

I had now ten minutes in which to reach the B—station. The depot was only a few squares distant, and I was walking as comfortably as I could, bracing myself against the wind, when a sweeping gust came round the corner. Something was lifted from my head: it was my hat.

My first impulse was to look round to see if anybody was laughing—I always laugh myself at a flying hat—and then I betook myself to pursuit. The hat only ambled. I was sure to catch it. It lodged against a gate post; my hand was almost on it, when the twin to that other gust came racing along, and off went my hat. I was very early, and there were but few people abroad. I heard now and then a faint laugh. A scrawny little urchin singing out, "Go it, boote!" A Hibernian maid, carrying a large parcel in a small paper, cried, "Sure the hat's leading that man a chase!" but on I went, breathless, chagrined and mad. Up Oak street down Green, across Maple and through Cherry that confounded hat led me, now doubling and fluttering almost under my nose, now gyrating with exultant motion that dumbly expressed the jubilee of uncontrollable jollity, now whirring into somebody's garden; now whisking